


Storms

by small_light



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Memories, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:39:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_light/pseuds/small_light
Summary: An interlude set in 1927. As a storm passes over Hogwarts, Albus' thoughts wander, and he reminisces about a summer long ago.





	Storms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naruthirnith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naruthirnith/gifts).



> This is a gift for Naruthirnith for the Grindeldore Holiday Exchange and written incorporating the three prompts of summer, flashback, and emotion. This was a pleasure to write and I hope you enjoy it some as well! Wishing a very happy holidays to you, and to all!
> 
>  
> 
> (Note, this takes place somewhere along the beginning of the Crimes of Grindewald movie timeline in my head, but for those who don't care for the Fantastic Beasts universe, this doesn't involve much of the Crimes of Grindelwald movie directly, so there's no requirement in reading it to assume it takes place in that universe, and no real spoilers beyond anything in the trailer.)
> 
> Also, my sincere apologies for the butchering of philosophies and sayings that have been borrowed/stolen/modified/drastically simplified to fit into in the form of this little story!

_~~_

 

_Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels, but old men are guilty if they forget what it is to be young - Albus Dumbledore_

 

_~~_

  
"Fenestra!" The first word of Albus' spell reached the open window just as the first gust of wind rushed in to the room. The cool damp air a startling contrast to the stale must of his small teacher's study. An early spring storm was tumbling over the distant hills of Hogwarts. Through the unstained glass and its opening he could almost see the waves moving along the wild moors, the darkening grey of the clouds reaching over to claim the highest peaks of the hills. Soon came the sound of the rain drops hitting the slated roof above him, and the fainter exclamations of the school banners, flapping from their parapets from the Quidditch field. For a moment, Albus paused with his head lifted from his readings, the final word of his spell halted on his lips. The window hung part open, awaiting further instruction. He let his eyes close and felt the wind caress his face, lift some of the thinning hair high on his forehead, above the creased partition of his brow. When he opened his eyes again he brought up his wand, and with a sharp stroke and another word, "Collo!", the panes shut with a rough clatter, just as the rain falling on the roof turned from a patter into a muffled roar.

  
The storm couldn't be a coincidence, Albus thought, for it had been a momentous few weeks. Only the last fortnight, Albus had been on his way to the London ministry when the news of Gellert's escape from the MACUSA prison had come down like thunder through all the ministry channels, bulletins flying through the owl and apparate emergency-use systems. In a contrast to that chaos, Albus had felt as if he were in the eye of a storm, when later that day, he had strolled back toward the train station via the muggle route, his thoughts too much in motion to apparate. Since the news of Gellert's capture earlier that year, Albus' heart had felt as if it were a ticking monotone inside of him, counting neither up, nor down. For he knew of the Americans and of their barbarious prison customs. Terrible even by Azekaban standards. Thus, the news of Gellert's escape had brought with it a staccato-ed relief to that beating, but a relief he had no desire to feel, and it had been accompanied by another lagging feeling, a dull guilt he had long become used to living inside of him. Become so used to it, he felt it barely at all.

  
Since then, all the eyes and ears of the ministry seemed to have fallen on him. Spying into his most mundane movements about town, waiting for any hint of complicity. For how could such a daring escape occur without someone with his connections, his precision and skill, involved on the outside? Although the ministry members would deny it, they often peddled in gossip and rumours. And those less discreet waited only until his back was just turned to speak of them. Already the minister of magic, accompanied by several visiting international ministry officials, had come to question him. Of course, Albus was confident that they had found no reason to doubt him. His classwork had been impeccable. His easy charm with them, and with his students, undimmed and constant. And he had been transparent, in his own easy and beguiling way, in response to their requests and questions. Perhaps more honest, given the occasion, than he had ever been before on such a matter. Furthermore, he was indeed innocent in deed. Yet despite this, he had felt his hand shake the day before when he had brought up the chalk to sketch out a list of dark arts symbols for his student's recognition exercises. When he had signed his name on yet another ministry truth-speaking parchment.

  
As the ministry entourage had left his office after their interview, Albus had overheard one of the youthful American aurors remark to another, "Well, I had always heard he was peculiar, but I didn't realize he was such an arrogant bastard!". That off-hand remark, though it's callousness impacted him quite not at all, and had in fact caused him to shake his head and laugh softly under his breath at the time, reminded him now of the similar taunts that he had received from his classmates, so very many years ago, during his own school days at Hogwarts. From his first days in these halls, he had always felt a bit of a distance between himself and his peers. As if he never quite measured up to the other student's expectations, nor they to his. But that gulf had magnified considerably after one of the 3rd year boys had spread the story of his father's trial and imprisonment in Azekaban. Some of the worst of his classmates had spoken of it behind his back, though somehow always within hearing distance. Spoken of how Albus felt no emotions at all. How even upon his father's sentencing he had not shed a tear. About how Albus believed he was superior to the other students, since he never showed interest in attending their regular social gatherings. Albus felt some understanding now for his young classmates, of how their fears of his family tragedy had been transformed into cruel words. And he could even smile gently at his younger self now as well, for how he had once believed those words. Ironic, since his classmates' taunts had indeed pierced him. How tender are our hearts young, he thought, and even after.

  
But neither Gellert's recent imprisonment, nor his subsequent escape, should qualify in such a realm as a personal tragedy, he thought. Certainly not for a wizard well into middle-age, long-past the age of boyhood emotions. Nevertheless, Gellert's escape was a tragedy in motion for the entire world, both wizarding and muggle. One that just so coincidentally hovered over the center of Albus' aged heart. He leaned back again in his chair, listening to the sound of the rain as it kept up its steady falling. A steady pattern in which he could hear no pattern at all. Falling and falling and falling.

  
It had been one afternoon that summer long ago. They had been sitting by the stream that ran through the outskirts of the town of Godric's Hallow. Stretched out side by side, near a small incline in the bend and over which they could hear the gentle rush of the wafer falling. Just the day before, Albus had finished reading a volume of treatises by a muggle philosopher, Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Albus had been eager to discuss all of those ideas and their implications with Gellert. For the topic of one of those essays had echoed in many intriguing ways a point he had previously argued to Gellert, and one that had quickly grown to become a pillar of their shared philosophy. The 'Greater Good'. But Rousseau had spoken instead of a 'Common Good', one which ultimately arose in a just society from the individual's love for themselves, but from a form of that love that was not a selfish-kind.

  
When Albus had brought up the idea of a Common Good with Gellert, that day by the stream, a friendly but fierce argument had soon erupted between the two of them. At first it had begun only as a disagreement about the practicality of such a democratic principle, but at some point it had turned into another argument entirely, into a discussion of the nature of that enigmatic and all-encompassing word, 'love'. It was a particular word, that they had never discussed before, neither as a philosophical concept, nor in any less academic terms.

  
"Ah, but Albus," Gellert had said, "most humans, muggles of course, but even wizards, and most societies as a whole, are ill-capable of putting aside their selfish concerns."

  
Albus had replied, "But Gellert, surely there are many examples of goodwill persevering in democratic or hierarchical societies, historical governments that we could learn from, aspire towards in our rule? And neglecting those historical precedents which occur on the scales of a society, perhaps there are also echoes and examples, in those relationships that occur at a more intimate scale. Perhaps for one, in the devotion of a parent for their child?"

  
But Gellert had laughed at this and in his worldy Germanic accent, uttered those words, "Ah, such innocence!".

  
Gellert's tone and the quickness of his dismissal had startled and even angered Albus, even in the format of their academic discussion. And so Albus had blurted out, with a rather uncharacteristic and youthful directness, his question about love:

  
"Then you do not believe in an unselfish or an unconditional love, Gellert? Is love always to be of a selfish kind?"

  
When Albus had asked that question, Gellert had paused as if only suddenly realizing he may have struck a wound within Albus. He had looked sideways up at him from under his eyelashes and Albus had thought then that he could almost see each of their individual blonde strands. Gellert's eyes had continued to dwell quite seriously on Albus' -- as a moment led into another moment -- his eyes having turned from their previous mischievous light to that sudden thoughtfulness. Then a slight intense smile had grown upon Gellert's lips. He had leaned over toward the stream, stretching out one lean wiry arm and then another, and submersing his palms down under the swiftly flowing water. Then he had brought up some of the clear water in his cupped hands. Gellert had seemed almost enrapt as he had gazed at the water spilling over the sides of his fingers. Then, finally, he had turned again to Albus and spoken:

  
"I do believe there are those capable of unselfish love, friend. At the same time, one has to be cautious. Perhaps it is only a few who truly experience it, and not another emotion that is only an imitation of that form. I was reading another argument just yesterday actually, in book of an eastern philosopher. I can bring it over to lend to you tomorrow. The advice was something like this: 'A wise man, should give his love only to those who are worthy and never to others, for the clear water of the stream received by the clouds is always sweet!' "

  
Then Gellert's smile had turned into a full grin. A grin that Albus could not help but share, even in the face of his recently awakened anger and the opaqueness of Gellert's words. And then Gellert had thrown his hands up and outward towards Albus, wetting the cloth of Albus' white-buttoned shirt, watching as the last remnants of the water from the stream spilled onto him.

  
Another day that summer, Gellert had blown into Albus' room just like a storm. He had had a new idea of course, and no patience in sharing it. As he had parted the door into the room and entered, something in his form had made a distinct impression on Albus, a photograph now in his memory. Perhaps it was an additional sheen due to the first stirrings of Albus' youthful desire, or his blossoming appreciation for Gellert's strange and particular beauty, a particular beauty that was rapidly becoming more familiar to him by the day. In any case, it was an image that still caught in Albus' memory all these year's later. Gellert's very posture and his distinct expression. One which always held the promise of impetuous but compelling words. Announcing to Albus how incompletely anyone might ever be able to control him. How very challenging it would be to estimate him. To hold him in any regard. Even to hold his gaze for too long. And in contradiction, how very difficult to gaze in any other direction.

  
Albus had wondered, back then, how he could be the only one who recognized these qualities in Gellert. Gellert's aunt, Albus' own family, seemed not to realize all that flared over in Gellert's youthful words and presence. Albus wondered even now all these years later, wondered about those who presently and willingly followed Gellert down the darkest path of that storm inside of him. Whether they truly appreciated his unique genius, his keen intellect, his effortless connection with all around him. If they truly heard the deepest and highest tones, understood the layer upon layers of meanings in his words.

  
Sometimes, when Albus had held Gellert's gaze that summer long ago, it had seemed as if there were a similar storm arising from deep within himself. One he may have occasionally noticed before, but which Gellert's eyes had beckoned out from hiding. Sometimes that summer, he had felt unusually shy. Sometimes he had felt, rather unusually, no longer shy at all. Even brave, courageous. And no longer quite so unconcerned about romance. That fact had hit him abruptly one evening when he had stolen away from Gellert to attend the Summer Solstice Dance at the Godric's Hollow Witches and Wizarding Hall. Perhaps it had been a minor fit of frustration, a demonstration of his independence. He and Aberforth had cautiously slipped out together, after Ariana had fallen asleep, in a rare occurrence, or at least an attempt, at brotherly bonding. And Albus remembered how he had felt a pang of utter sympathy for Jeffrey Bardot, who had been scorned by Jenny Patterson, and whom Albus had stumbled over on the veranda stairs on his way to procure himself and Aberworth some punch (and to avoid some of the more awkward dancing on-going on the main dance-floor). There he had caught sight of Jeffrey, red-faced, looking out into the distance of a dusky mid-summer sky, shamefully wiping away his tears.

  
And Albus also remembered another evening later that summer, when he had not stolen away from Gellert, but had stolen to him. They had met near the back gate of Gellert's aunt's house, just as the steady sunlight was dimming into a late twilight. Gellert had said something to Albus that he could no longer remember. Only how it had made him feel and instinctively act.That storm inside of him had arisen again, and Albus had turned and leaned in closer, deliberately captured Gellert's hand. Watched it go still. Captured his eyes as well, watched them also go still. And then finally Gellert's lips. In that moment, those inner storms had receded, surrendered, steadied in their tracks. Or perhaps they had only momentarily been reborn and transformed.

  
Even now, nearly 30 years later, after that singular moment had long since dissipated into an untrustful ghost of a memory, Albus was certain. Certain that despite all that Gellert might have projected then in other matters, in all matters really, that he must have felt it then as well. As if some of the sharp edges of their storms had, wrapping together, formed an eddying harbor. For the very first time, and a handful of times after, Albus had felt both alive and at home inside his body. No separation between the emotions and intellect of his mind and their expression in the world. No further ambitions. Not even those bold and once unclouded ambitions, which he and Gellert had spent so many long summer evenings envisioning for each other, as if by sharing such dreams they could have  single-handedly ferried themselves into adulthood, and into what they had both believed then was their fated and deserved glory.

  
Albus blinked back a tear, but the memory of that first kiss that summer evening had brought to him as well a sliver of comfort. If he closed his eyes now he was sure he would still feel a tendril of that old connection, even if Gellert had long lost moor of any centering or guiding pull it might ever have held for him. Albus could still hold to that separated, and in his better moments now, emancipated, portion within himself. Even if it were still under lock and key. What had been gifted to him along with all the regrets and shame of their communion. And if Albus was being completely honest. If anyone were ever to ask him to place a wager on penalty of life or death. Albus was also certain that it must still lurk somewhere, far down under that pure white cruelty, that had always so easily slipped over Gellert's soul. Knew this with such an unverifiable certainty that it could only be considered faith. And so Albus' thoughts turned now almost to spoken word and to what he might say to Gellert, if they ever had a late second reckoning. One that the events of the last two weeks could only portend was on the horizon. Still it was a meeting that he could only envision to take place on an unearthly landscape, or perhaps one even beyond that of death, where no storms surrounded them:

  
_Can you remember that lightning flash of a lesson you once taught me? That one, foolishly, I've been unable to silence, even decades after you left? It still beams like a lighthouse of warning through any storm clouds that might fill my head. Do you remember how, even I, who am still so cautious of any strong emotions, having seen from childhood my own family failed so often in that regard, how love that had hardened when my father was exiled and then my mother extinguished, melted miraculously in your presence? And burned so brightly and quickly down the wick of my being it consumed any doubts? A feeling that even now has left me unable to disbelieve -- against all evidence to the contrary of both your deeds, and the deeds of others in this too often unforgiving world -- how love in the end is far more powerful than the sort of power you and I once sought. Do you remember that particular emotion? Love? And if only in a few moments, of an unselfish kind?_

  
And Albus' thoughts halted on that sentiment, as a tear spilled over and fled down his cheek. Outside his teacher's study, the rain began to fade, rolling down to a hum and then even softer, until it almost faded away. Albus raised his wand toward the window again. "Fenestra aberto!" he proclaimed, even knowing another storm was likely coming.

 

~~

**Author's Note:**

> The actual quote Gellert restates is one I found by a Indian philosopher, Chanakya, and the actual (translated) quote is "O wise man! Give your wealth only to the worthy and never to others. The water of the sea received by the clouds is always sweet."


End file.
